The Eyes of a Soldier
by coulsonbaby
Summary: Sherlock AU. John Watson is on the front lines, living by the code 'Kill or be Killed.' But what if there is an exception to the rule? Death, War, Injury


"Watson, watch out!"

I hardly had time to duck beneath the sandbags before the grenade went off a few meters to my left, the sheer force throwing me to the ground. The battle had been on full swing for the past six hours, and we were all tired. All around us our fellow soldiers and friends were dead, or injured and screaming- their screams were haunting and it was terrible, terrible because I couldn't help them. It was all about survival at this point, every man for himself. The front lines were different. There was no going back.

I had stopped counting how many men I killed, or how many were shot dead right beside me. I tried to forget about my mates who were behind me, in front of me, around me, screaming and dying- I tried not to think about all the men that wouldn't be there if we ever got out of this hellhole.

"With me, Watson!" I looked around, frazzled, to find that Murray was standing beside me, pulling me up by the arm. Was I still on the ground? "Focus Watson, come on!" And before I knew it, we were running top speed across the dirt, our heads ducked as we tried not to be noticed. Safe in a trench, I was able to take a moment and get back into my own head.

"You okay Watson? That grenade hit real close."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Blinking, I looked at my right hand. "Murray, where's my gun?"

"I don't know, Watson, you must have dropped it. I just had to get you out of there so you could recover without getting shot."

"Yeah," I said after a moment as the loud boom of a bomb went off behind us. "But I need a gun. How the hell am I going to survive without a gun?"

"Use your knife. Get a gun. Survive." He clapped me on the arm and looked me in the eyes. "We're both coming out of this today."

Then he was gone and I was left sitting alone in the trench. I knew I had to move, there's no staying in one place when you're on the front lines. You move, it doesn't matter where, you move. We don't need sitting ducks- if you stay you're dead.

So I moved.

And I tried not to look in the boy's face when I tore the pistol from his cold hands. I would have enough nightmares after today, enough cold faces running through my memories, and I didn't need to add another to the list.

Just like that, I was back, and every time I saw an enemy I shot without thinking. Shoot and run. Duck. Breathe. Shoot. Run.

How much time passed, I didn't know. How many were still alive, I didn't know. Was I even still alive? I didn't know.

That was when I heard the bomb. Then another, and another, and the whole earth was shaking beneath my feet, throwing me to the ground as I watched the planes fly above my head, as I watched the black bundles fall from them.

Boom. Boom.

Boom.

Stunned, injured. Was I bleeding? My shoulder, it wasn't aligned right. And there was so much blood, everywhere- was my uniform always red?

Breathe.

Run.

And then I was running, and stumbling over the dirt as the shock of bombs continued to shake the world around me- was I running east or west? Up or down? Was I even still running?

Falling, I was falling.

My foot had gotten caught on something, something dead, and I was tumbling into a ditch, and I landed on my shoulder and fuck did it hurt. Where those screams mine?

No.

They were the soldier's.

And then the dead boy's gun was in my hand and I was pointing it at the soldier. His uniform was wrong. He was not a friendly.

That meant he had to die.

And my finger was on the trigger, and then the soldier's screams stopped and he was looking me in the eye, his face so filled with fear. And then, in that moment, I made a decision.

I lowered my gun.

It was his eyes, it was, that tore me apart. He was just a boy, couldn't have been older than twenty. What were they doing, sending children into battle? Pitiful. But his eyes... so broken, so scared, so much pain filled them- but there was not a single tear dusting them. He was too young. He didn't need to see this.

Not a second had passed, but the gun was on the ground and his eyes showed his gratitude, but his lips were clinched and his face in agony, and then I saw the leg. Oh god, his leg. It was torn apart, bloodied, and I was sitting on it.

I could see the gory flesh through what had been blown out of the leg of his trousers, probably by a grenade. And damn, the blood. If this boy didn't get shot, he would die from blood loss before the day was over. This enemy soldier, why did I care?

It was his eyes. The dark hair soaked with sweat and dirt and blood was sticking to his face and his lips were bleeding from being bitten, and his eyes. They were hallow, and broken but... but hopeful. Intelligent. Longing.

Young.

Not a word was said between the two of us as I tore apart his uniform and wrapped up his wound, pouring water on it from my canteen- valuable water, I shouldn't have been wasting it- and sanitizing it. Wrapping it tightly, but the blood soaked through so quickly, and I had to put pressure on it and he didn't scream, not once more. I could feel his pain, his agony, his terrifying, searing pain- I could see it in his eyes.

Brave eyes.

Young eyes.

So I rewrapped his leg, gave him water from my canteen.

Grateful eyes.

So I picked him up, wrapped his arm over my shoulder. He was much taller than me and I dragged him across the calming battlegrounds. Had the battle ended? How long ago?

I dragged him, and then there were trees and off in the distance, enemy uniforms. I set him down, leaned him against a thick tree trunk. Gave him my canteen, gave him my bread.

Surprised eyes.

Young eyes.

No.

Wise eyes.

I almost said something, almost wished him well. But I didn't. Should I have? I didn't even know the boy's name.

But it was too late, for I was running through the wood, tripping over roots, running and running and running...

My shoulder, I could feel it again.

It was worse.

Falling. Into a stream.

Digging the bullet out of my flesh.

Screaming. Water. Cold. Dark.

And then I woke up, and there was Murray and Scott and Hamson and they were screaming and carrying me somewhere.

Pain. Dizzy. Dark.

-FIVE YEARS LATER-

I have always loved the city, you know. London is my home. It was, it is, it always will be. I love the sound of people chattering as the walk down the bustling streets, the shouts of vendors calling for customers, the high spirits the whole city finds themselves in on sunny days like today.

"May I take your order, Sir?"

"Ah, yes ma'am, thank-you. Can I get the Americano, two shots?"

"Yes sir, we'll call you up when it's ready. That'll be three forty-nine."

As I pulled out my wallet, my gaze drifted over the daily paper and the headliner looked interesting, 'Young Detective Busts Crime Ring.' "Actually, can I get that too?" I gestured towards the paper, paid, and sat down at a table by the window, zoning out as I watched the streets. I've always loved London.

The cafe was bustling and loud, so I did not hear it when the barista called out my name. I did, however, hear the screech of chair legs against the tiled floor as a coffee cup was set in front of me. "Wha-?" I asked as I snapped back to reality, looking down at the cup with my lame written on it.

I looked up at the man sitting across from me, sipping a latte and gazing out the window so I could only see his profile. Who was this man, who knew who I was and was sitting opposite me in this tiny London cafe?

"Who are yo-" as I started to speak, the dark-haired man turned towards me, smiling. Something about him seemed familiar, like I had met him before, a long time ago. What was it? I could quite put my finger on it as I looked him in the eye to continue, and I couldn't because there they were and I was speechless.

Because the eye's I found myself looking into weren't the eyes of a man or the eyes of a boy. They weren't just any set of piercing green eyes

They were the eyes that had made nightly haunts of my dreams for the past five years.

They were the eyes of a soldier.


End file.
